


we are all broken (that's just how the light gets inside)

by Milothatches



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, admittedly rushed the ending leave me alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27169411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milothatches/pseuds/Milothatches
Summary: In the morning I am quiet. I must wait for my voice to settle, as if the words I've spoken were not for you to hear quite yet.(Or -- Blake's got a man to come home to, after all.)Blakefield Kisstober 2020: Day 23 [Kissing Injuries Better]
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31
Collections: Blakefield Kisstober 2020





	we are all broken (that's just how the light gets inside)

Blake wakes in the middle of a farm, staring out at the crumbling walls of a cherry orchard. It is the hand cupped around his head and the stuttered breathing he feels first, and his soul thinks,  _ Schofield. _

  
  


The sky is burning.

  
  


"What are they?" he mumbles. ".. Are we being shelled?"

Where is the sound? The sky does not scream, the birds do not sing, the earth does not shake. Schofield breathes.

"They're embers," he says, "the barn is on fire."

_ Oh,  _ he thinks. Something in him is shaking. Or - Scho is shaking. His hands are shaking and he can't stop thumbing at the curls on the side of his head, but Schofield is so gentle when he holds Blake's hand, when he lets his eyes shine down on him.

"I know the way," he says softly. It's as if he's afraid to be loud  — what will the earth do, once it realizes it is no longer moving? What will the sky look like?

Blake breathes. Lets his eyes close, lets himself feel. If this is to be the last thing he gets to know, the feeling of his head rested against Scho's chest and the feeling of Scho’s hand in his, tracing over his knuckles, then so be it. He can't think of a kinder way to go than this.

(...Maybe less stabbing, though. The pain is - not good. Like he's eight years old again and with a scraped knee and he keeps sobbing  _ it hurts it hurts it hurts. _ )

  
  


There is no wind. Somewhere, the birds will sing again. The trees will shake, and the fire will die. Slow, and steady. Red does not go with olive. Blake breathes. 

_ I don't think I'm ready to leave you,  _ says a thought.  _ Do you know that I love you? _

He doesn't say it. Not in the way he knows how, broken and true and brave. Instead:

"It'll be dark by then," Because I am scared. 

Because I love you. 

Schofield tightens the hand holding his, frames Blake's jaw with the other until they are closer, closer.  _ (Always.) _

"That won't bother me," because Schofield already knows.

Blake sighs - relieved. The pull of sleep crashes in steady waves, hard to ignore with how comfortable he’s starting to feel. He presses his face into Scho’s jacket, squeezes his hand. They have nowhere to be.

Scho squeezes back.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs. “Tell me something.”

Blake wracks his brain. For something, anything. “Like what?”

“Your leave  — you wanted me to go with you,” he says. “Where would we go?”

“Home,” he says immediately. “I wanted you to meet my family.”  _ I want you to  _ be _ my family,  _ Blake thinks. Scho gets it all the same - ducks his head a little, presses a kiss to his curls.

He lifts his head, almost reluctant, before gently lifting their linked hands to peek at the wad of bandages pressed to Blake’s leg.

“Bleeding’s stopped.”

_ I’m not dying, _ he thinks. Something in his chest unfurls, aches. “That’s nice.”

Thunder rumbles in the distance. It doesn’t rain. The sky used to be blue, once; maybe the colour’s been sucked out, just for them. The rumbling doesn’t stop  — Schofield realizes it when he does.

  
  


“You know the way,” Blake confirms.

“I do,” he says.

“And you’ll make it.”

“Yes,” Scho breathes, like it is the easiest thing to say in the world.

He nods, adjusts his grip on Scho’s hand. The sound keeps getting closer, more and more, gentle and abrupt.

  
  


_ Wait for me,  _ Blake thinks.  _ I will build you the world. _

Schofield does. Tom closes his eyes, and drifts.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


The next time he wakes up, there is cotton in his head and he feels like  _ garbage. _

The pain isn’t immediate, more of a dull throb. It only takes a small mumble of “Scho?” and a nurse passing by for anyone to notice him.

  
  


“You’re awake. Good. How is the pain?” She says. All business.

“Fine?” he croaks weakly, though he isn’t sure he would say anything if it wasn’t, anyway. She nods.

“Tell someone if that changes. I’m going to grab the doctor - you stay right there, don’t jostle your stitches.”

And then she’s gone. Blake grins. 

  
  


Things are going to be just fine.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  


By the time he’s back with the 8th, Schofield is gone.

Something starts pulling sharp and frantic at his heart when he scans all the faces and doesn’t find him. He’s looking for the first familiar face before he can even think about it.

“Do you know where Schofield is?”

  
  


It’s Morency. He raises an eyebrow. “No. Heard he was injured with you, wasn’t he?”

Blake shakes his head.

“Shit. Well. Keplin’s been keepin’ your letters, think you can find him down there with the others,” Morency gestures, pointing down the line with a cigar.

“Right. Thank you,” and then he’s off.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


_ April 20th: _

  
  


_ Blake, _

  
  


_ By the time you are reading this, I will be safely returning on a ship bound for home. I am to hope you are well when you get this, and have not suffered the same fate as I did. The Devons are safe - your brother is well. He would like for you to write him, as soon as you can. I nearly made it in time, as it was dawn and the first wave was already going over. For this, I am sorry - I know we would have both liked for me to have come sooner. _

_ I am afraid to say you were wrong about your brother, however; he is a little older, this is true. But he is also far more handsome. (I am teasing you - the nurse keeps glaring at me, and I am quite scared of her.) _

_ Please let me know how you are. You can write to my home address - I’ve written it on the back. _

  
  


_ Yours, _

Will

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


_ April 26th: _

  
  


_ Will - _

_ I’m glad to hear you are alright. I was quite panicked when I came to return to the 8th and you were not there - Don’t scare me like that. I’ve already gotten a chewing out from my brother, and something tells me I’ll be getting another from my mum sometime soon. Don’t beat yourself up about the timing - I’m sure you’re leaving out quite the story for me to hear when I get back. _

_ And what’s this about going home? And a nurse? You worry me, Will. I can’t be sent home from a heart attack just after I’ve been patched up. _

  
  


_ Always, _

Tom

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


The world is still warm without William Schofield.

The sun shines, bright and hesitant and early, gracing the grass and the trees and the bodies. The birds still sing, the water still flows. Blake is restless, but he rests, but he breathes, but he lives. The world goes on.

Somewhere, their tree is gone. A million trees in France, and a million shaking men, and a dozen flickering fires. The world goes on  — after all, what is one man, to many?

  
  


_ Everything,  _ Blake thinks. He is the mud and the soil before us. He is the air and the sea and the guns made before me. He is the field I rest in, but he isn’t here for me to tell him.

The earth is warm, and William Schofield isn’t here. Blake breathes.

  
  


The war ends. The world goes on.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  


When Blake steps off the train, Schofield is waiting for him.

He’s not in the crowd, because Blake looks - He hovers somewhere close to the entrance, tapping his feet and fiddling with a loose string like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to be here. His hair is gold, and the left sleeve of his button-up is rolled just above his wrist where his hand is missing, and he’s the most beautiful thing Blake’s ever seen.

_ I’m going to marry him,  _ he thinks numbly. It doesn’t matter. His feet are carrying him before he knows what he’s doing, and then he’s hugging Scho so hard he can hear how he knocks the air out of his chest.

“I missed you,” he mumbles. Schofield laughs, wetly. Blake pulls away just enough to see the way he smiles, the way his eyes soften, like they always do, like they always will.

“I bet I missed you more,” he says, and it’s so stupidly kind and soft and sweet and not intended to be suggestive, but they’re in public, and Blake’s panicking.

“You can wait ‘till later, you bastard,” he says, lightly slapping Scho’s chest. “Is this how you treat girls? Couldn’t even take me home first.”

Scho just grins. “No,” he teases, “just you.”

  
  


_ Jesus fuck, _ he thinks. They cannot get out of there fast enough.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


Blake wakes up, and the sun is shining.

  
  


There is a gentle breeze through the window, flickering through their pale blue curtains, yet never beyond it. The sun is light and forgiving; all that there is bathes in the sweet white light of it, never burning. Blake wakes, so the world wakes, too.

The bed is cold and somewhere outside their bedroom there’s the sound of something shuffling, and his soul thinks,  _ Will. _

He stumbles out of bed blearily, peeking out their doorway while scrubbing the sleep out of one of his eyes. Will stands hovering over the little potted plants on their kitchen table, hair mussed and not even in his own sweater.

“What’re you doing?” he yawns, and Will glances up quickly. His eyebrows furrow, and something like worry flickers in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says. Tom shrugs; they both can’t sleep long without the other, anyway. He wanders to see what Will’s hovering over, a tiny little daisy just barely peeking through the dirt.

“I don’t know how much water to give her,” Will murmurs. Tom hums thoughtfully, wrapping his arms around Will’s waist.

“I think what you’ve got is enough, don’t want to spoil her.” 

“Flowers don’t spoil, Tom.”

“Right, and I’ve never seen a cherry tree,” he snickers, and giggles when Will wacks at him playfully. “She’ll live. Can we go back to bed now?”

“You can, if you want.”

“It’s not the same,” Tom says, and moves so he’s hugging less of Will’s side and more of  _ him. _ Something changes, maybe, the small way his shoulders slump, the way the sun rises, the way Will wraps his hand around Tom and says, “Okay.”

  
  


They’re in no rush. They have nowhere to be. Tom still hits his head against the headboard when he flings himself onto their mattress, and Will still laughs.

“You’re the worst,” he whines. “I am clearly in agony and you laugh at me.”

“I’m sorry,” Will giggles, laying next to where Tom’s sprawled with a lot more care put into the action than Tom.

“No, you’re not,” he says, but he can’t fight the smile that comes when Will presses a kiss to his head. It’s not a stab wound, it’s not a missing limb, but it makes the ache disappear all the same.

Will sighs.

  
  


“No, I’m not.”


End file.
